The Accursed (37 page)

“Elevenses” here in the open, sun-dappled air, & I hunch myself over this missive to my beloved little lady, that none of my fellow guests will feel the urge to join me on the veranda, & “rescue” me from my solitude. (Word has spread, you will be amused to know, about who I am; one of the eccentric rumors being that I am an “exiled” or “disgraced” monarch of some small European principality! So Mrs. Peck has told me, with a peal of laughter.)

Rose early, & golfed this morning; my companions being Francis Pyne & his house guest Count English von Gneist, of whom I think you might have heard, in Princeton; for he has been a guest at Drumthwacket this winter. The Count speaks with a strong accent yet knows English well; his full name is
Count English Rudolf Heinrich Gottsreich-Muller von Gneist
. Well-bred he assuredly is, from ancient Wallachian stock. I begin to see why the Pynes & several other West End Princeton families have warmed to him. Were it not for his European background one could imagine him a Campbell of Argyll!—that is, a man among men. His hair rises nobly from a high, craggy, brooding forehead; his nose is aquiline, and his ears long and slender; his eyes a striking tawny hue, that changes with the light. Though a titled nobleman admitting to being linked by blood to most of the noble houses of Europe, the Count claims to be “without a homeland” & “grateful for the hospitality & charity of his American friends.” In the most charming way imaginable he said to me, “Mr. Wilson! You gaze upon the Sole Living Heir of Nothingness.”

As it turns out, the Count too has read
A History of the American People
& was quite flattering about its worth; claiming that he had learned a good deal from it, for, in Europe, as he said, “we don’t ordinarily think of Americans as a
people
but rather as a mixture of hardy mongrel stock.” He was particularly impressed by my commentary on the infamous Pullman boycott of 1894 as well as the Populist threat in general: the labor agitations, strikes, & outright crimes, as in the recent outrage in Paterson. Both the Count & Francis Pyne think that my observations on the necessity for intelligent Caucasian discrimination, in the matter of Negroes, Orientals, and the multitudes from the lower classes out of Europe, to be quite the best, because the most reasonably argued, presentation of the subject he has read. “I’ve always thought it unfortunate,” the Count said, “that such opinions, which are perfectly self-evident to any clear-thinking man, are often voiced, in the public press, and on the platform, by demagogues, knaves, or raving lunatics!—which is, as you know, highly embarrassing for our cause.” The only demurral this gracious gentleman expressed had to do with my stated belief that the American people are blessed by God, elevated above the common run of humankind by a “guardian destiny” & intended—nay, obliged—to spread our ideals throughout the world. That is, Christianity, and Democracy. In our debate, we were joined at the club house by others, including Edgerstoune FitzRandolph. I think that I spoke convincingly, dear Ellen—
you
would have been proud, I believe—for after all, it is common knowledge in 1906, & has been since the time of McKinley, that the United States is charged by God with the evangelical mission of spreading Christian democracy throughout the world, and opening the markets of the East as well—by diplomacy if possible, by power otherwise. “We are a sort of pure air blowing in world politics, destroying ancient illusions, and cleaning places of morbid miasmatic gases,” I explained to the gentlemen. We debated whether it was an “American” obligation or rather more an “Anglo-Saxon” one, which allowed us to ponder the issue over luncheon, & to shake hands with mutual respect, & now I am feeling quite “bully” indeed . . .
These are people who are on my side. & how many more, yet undeclared.

Mrs. Peck insists upon inviting me to dinner!—quite flatters me by insisting that
Mark Twain himself bids you attend, Mr. Wilson!

“Thank you, but I am afraid that I must decline”—these words distinctly uttered & yet—(somehow)—the very antithesis seemed to be registered by the shiny-faced American heiress who twirled her parasol in very delight—“Thank
you,
Mr. Wilson—I will send my driver to pick you up at 7 p.m. on this very veranda—& hope that, by such time, you have put aside your many papers & books & lifted your head, that you might use your eyes to
see
.”

& so it seems, my precious darling, I must go out after all, though very unwilling—
very!
Without my dear wife to tie my tie, & see that I am “properly attired” to mingle in decent society.

The only boon, I will stamp & mail this letter in the hotel lobby, that it will be hurried to my precious darling, early tomorrow!

Your loving husband,

Woodrow

A
DMIRALTY
I
NN

25
A
PRIL 1906

My precious darling,

How my head spins & reels with the
intensity
of this paradisiacal place!

Forgive me, my darling, for not having written for several days—for I have been entirely
immersed in work—
barricaded in this hotel room like a monk!

Feeling a bit breathless, my dear wife, for much of this day I have been preparing my modified statement of purpose offered
in lieu of a resignation from the presidency
—the most profound single document of my life!

You will say Woodrow do not exaggerate! You will cause your heartbeat to accelerate & your brain to turn feverish—do not exaggerate!

Of course you are correct, my precious darling. Always, you are correct.

It is Woman’s genius, to know us as we FAIL TO KNOW ourselves.

How I wish, dear Ellen, I might read this statement to you; in which, while managing to skirt “humbling” myself—(as a descendant of the great clan of Argyll, I am hardly a “Uriah Heep”)—I yet explain & quite calmly the reasons for my former adamant position about the Graduate School, & offer an apology—(yes it is SINCERE)—to Dean West in particular whom, I concede, I have
somewhat maligned,
this past year.

Thus, the work goes well; but I must prepare another draft. & think it best if I type all the letters myself, & not rely upon a hotel secretary-for-hire; badly missing my precious darling, at such a time. However—I WILL TYPE THE G-D LETTERS MYSELF—& mail out in a day or two.

As my brain felt feverish I thought it therapeutic to walk along the beach, in the wind; for luncheon was
much chatter
—& afterward two carloads of guests were driven to Government House for tea with the Governor—who (as Mrs. Peck explains) is brother to the esteemed General Kitchener. In the party were Samuel Clemens who quite dazzles the eye with his white linens, & his snowy-white hair & gruff-bristling dark brows—& the FitzRandolphs—& Francis Pyne—& Count English von Gneist; & Mrs. Peck of course for it seems, Cybella (as she bids me call her) knows everyone—& is never so happy as when she “mangles her guests together” as she laughingly says. & so—we are
mangled . . .

Governor Kitchener is a dignified older man & a shining example of “splendid isolation”—even in the minuscule domain of Bermuda. For, while charming enough, this island paradise under the benign British protectorate is one of those regions of the world that
cannot matter to history
. How envious I felt of this gentleman!—ruling his island empire with no opposition, at least of which he is aware; a population of educated & genteel whites of whom many are clearly well-to-do tourists & visitors, who never present any political problems, as they are transient & indifferent to the island’s politics; & all these very capably serviced by a population of Negroes well-trained & speaking, unlike our American Negroes, a very distinctive English. (You would be astonished to hear them, dear Ellen! Almost it seems, it is a kind of joke, or leg-pull, that so very black a Negro will speak such precise British English, like a wind-up doll; & not give any hint, to the U.S. tourist, that there is anything the slightest bizarre in such; for the servants here, that I have encountered, are exceedingly well trained & unfailingly competent. Would that I could transport some of these home with me, to our household at Prospect!)

“Excuse me, sir”—for, a second time, as I tramped along the beach thinking such thoughts sans shoes & socks, I came very close to stepping on a swarm of jellyfish; & am grateful for a young man, with a bemused smile, who came handily to my rescue. & grateful, dear Ellen, that you are not with me, for you would have been repulsed in horror & disgust by these translucent blobs of gelatinous matter, with hideous trailing tentacles, washed upon the beach with the tide; though at luncheon as I recall, though distracted by others’ conversation, I had overheard Francis Pyne commenting on the “remarkable” phenomenon of these particular jellyfish, i.e., lion’s mane, appearing in these waters, at this time of year.

Ah, a disturbing rumor, also at lunch, that blowhard “TR” & family may visit Bermuda; Sam Clemens expelling a cloud of the most foul cigar-smoke caused the luncheon party to convulse in laughter with a droll remark as to the Bull-Moose President being
more bull than moose
& I confess, I laughed with the party, for Mr. Clemens
is
very funny, if cruel & cutting. Cybella Peck turned to me to ask my judgment of the President & I demurred, like any diplomat; yet made the party gasp with laughter sharing with them a “fantastical vision” of an Anarchist assassin making his way to peaceful Bermuda to throw a bomb at the broad-grinning President—here, there would not be sufficient police protection for him . . . For which scathing wit your poor husband was properly punished with, at the end of the two-hour luncheon, a sudden gastric attack in the equatorial regions, necessitating an abrupt departure.

My precious darling, I fear that these new friends whisper of me, behind my back, that I am “not well-looking”—for Mr. Clemens is often most cutting, seeing foibles & flaws in others that a more benign eye might overlook; & Cybella made a most cruel observation, regarding a
buck-toothed British baroness
at a nearby table; & I felt a hurt, that our dear daughters would be wounded could they overhear such thoughtless remarks. (Mrs. Peck is much doted-upon by both Brits & U.S. guests here & is often seen with Count von Gneist & Mr. Pyne—it is a minority report, yet I fail to see the woman’s
serene Botticelli beauty
as Mr. Clemens praises it, & so much prefer a less “cultivated” & “calculated” charm, by far! It is good to recall how Jesus bids us to see into the soul & not be dazzled by the outer self; the more so, as Mrs. Peck is one of those individuals whose (alleged) beauty, good breeding, & wealth have not conferred kindness or charity upon her, but rather the reverse—for like her companion Mr. Clemens, Cybella cannot seem to resist a sly or cutting quip, to provoke laughter in listeners.)
*

Forgive, dearest wife, this somewhat disconnected letter; as my thoughts fly about like the disturbed moths that throw themselves against the screen here, yearning to immolate themselves in
heat & light
! I have not wished to alarm you, but a fresh attack of neuritis as well as “equatorial mutiny” have cast down my spirits, & now I must dose myself with Pinkham’s & Oil of Tartar (that mix so sickeningly together, the patient is anxious not to vomit) & hope for sleep; & if not, will have no recourse other than the pump you have begged me not to use, when you are not at hand.

Your loving husband,

Woodrow

A
DMIRALTY
I
NN

26
A
PRIL 1906

My precious darling,

Thank you for your sweet, sweet letter, & thank the girls for me, for their most welcome little notes—you cannot know how moved I was, after my turbulent night; how I have carried my dear family close against my heart through this long & unsettling day. I am sorry to hear your “troubling” news from Maidstone & as you have chosen to supply no details, I am led to worry that the long-invalided Adelaide Burr has taken a turn for the worse. Here, though I try to avoid contact with Princeton faces, as much as courtesy allows, I find that yet again I have accepted an invitation to dinner, this time from the FitzRandolphs who are hosting a dinner at
Sans Souci;
& my punishment will be the donning of my frock coat & gray striped trousers & the most starched collar in my possession, this very evening. Kindly Mrs. FitzRandolph has arranged for their driver to pick me up in Mrs. Peck’s Silver Cloud Pierce-Arrow yet another time. (Though I do not like it greatly, how our Princeton friends & neighbors
assume
that I have no way to transport myself; as the board of trustees sets my salary so modestly, I cannot afford a motorcar, let alone a driver to drive the motorcar, back home.) & though she is kindly, Mrs. FitzRandolph is somewhat coercive, a character flaw often found in females of wealth & social station; her clothes far too “stylish” for my taste—nearly as calculated to capture the eye as Mrs. Peck’s that are allegedly sewn for her by a Parisian designer of great renown,
a man it is said,
who fashions clothing for the First Lady of France. Both Mrs. FitzRandolph & Mrs. Peck are women who favor the most delicate “pastel” colors; the skirts of their dresses are very full, & the shoulder line of their clothing strangely low, in what is said to be the Japanese style—(for Mrs. Peck saw me staring, & laughingly explained). The women’s hats here are
enormous
—nothing like my dear wife’s modest-trimmed little hats—& lavishly trimmed with very pretty though fluttery ostrich feathers. Mr. Clemens quips
How many ostriches must be sacrificed, that our ladies’ vanity shines forth
—to which I inwardly murmured AMEN!

I had meant to tell you, dear Ellen, that I’d caught a glimpse the other day of the FitzRandolph baby, which few persons in Princeton have seen—its name is Terence—much swaddled in infant’s clothing & in a buggy covered in veils, to protect the child from the sun’s strong rays; as well, as Amanda FitzRandolph says, most curiously, from any “singular influence” the child might receive, from an adult stooping to peer into his tiny face!